


Oh, Holy Night

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Home is Not a Place [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 07:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12649146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Sherlock manoeuvres them towards the bedroom and then lowers John carefully onto the bed. “Take off your shirt and trousers.  We should wash the shirt, just to be on the safe side with the poison, and you’ll want the ice directly on the bruise, I assume.”John winces and rolls onto his uninjured side.  “You just want me to get my kit off.”“Mmm, well it is Christmas Eve, and I have been a very good boy this year.”John’s eyes widen a little, as a smile teases the corner of his mouth.  “True.”





	Oh, Holy Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty explicit compared to the other instalments in the series. Make sure to take a look at the rating and tags.

“I think Father Christmas went over fairly well.”

John chuckles and swirls the wine around in his glass.“Yeah.Good of Mike to do that.”

“Yes, no screaming at all on Watson’s part.Impressive.”

“You remember that time I took you Christmas shopping and you shouted at Father Christmas that you wanted a nice juicy murder for Christmas in front of all those kids?”

Sherlock smiles and takes a sip of the excellent wine his brother left as obligatory gift the last time he was at the flat.“Doesn’t sound like me at all.”He winks, and delights in the fact that John’s cheeks flush even as he smirks back, giving as good as he gets.

“It was a good day, today.Best Christmas Eve I’ve ever had, I’d say.”

“Was it?”

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

“I know there were a lot of people, and that’s not really your thing, but did you at least enjoy the food?”

“I enjoyed watching you enjoying yourself.And yes, Mrs. Hudson’s cooking continues to impress.”

John smiles again.It’s a soft and lazy sort of a thing.He’s not drunk, not yet, but he is a little tipsy.Sherlock is starting to feel the wine himself, and he’s hoping that John will limit himself to the glass in his hand, as Sherlock plans to do.If he’s honest, he’s hoping for a little bit of a Christmas miracle, and that is the sort of thing one wants to be in one’s right mind for.

“Would you like your gift now?”

John arches a brow.“Was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten.”

“No.I just felt it more appropriate to wait until it was just the two of us.”He’s suddenly anxious.The gift is a bit of a risk…

“Sure.Okay.Gotta go get yours too.It’s upstairs.Be right back.”

Sherlock retreats to his room, to fetch the envelope from the bottom of his sock drawer.He holds it in his hand for a moment, weighing the entire idea.Presumptuous?Unwise?Or perhaps…

Suddenly there is a thump, and then another, proceeded by a loud clatter, and then…

“Fuck.Jesus…Fuck!”

Sherlock drops the envelope, forgotten on top of the dresser, and races to the landing, only to find John lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, a small festively wrapped package, looking rather worse for wear, where it lies crushed beneath his elbow.

Sherlock shakes his head in confusion.“What happened.”

“What do you think happened, idiot.I fell down the stairs.You going to help me up, or…?”

“Woo hoo!”Mrs. Hudson’s familiar greeting floats up from the foyer.“You boys alright up there?”

“Yes.John’s just falling down stairs and destroying my Christmas gift.Go away.”

“Oh dear…Are you alright, John?Do you need some ice?”

“We’ve got some, thanks.”

“Oh…Well—if you’re sure.Good-night, boys.”

Sherlock stares back down at John.“Are you hurt?”

“Bruised.Nothing broken, I don’t think.Help me up, though.”

Sherlock does, and John immediately hisses when he puts weight on his bad leg. 

“Is it bad?”

“Just—hurts.”John lets Sherlock support him with a firm arm around his back, and nudges the sad, crushed gift with one socked toe.“That’ll be ruined then.Shit.”

“What was it?”

“Those little apothecary jars you saw in that oddities shop a month or so ago.”

“The ones labelled with various poisons?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock feels a twinge of disappointment at their ruin.“Oh.You didn’t get any glass in your elbow, did you?Sometimes they have residual…”

“No, but I definitely heard them break.”

“Perhaps we should contain them.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m going to take you to bed, contain that,” Sherlock nods towards the package, “and then get you some ice for your hip.”

“Ta.Christ, but haven’t I made a mess of it all.”

“It could be worse.You might have broken your leg.”

John’s head lolls a little to the side, and he nods.“True.”

Sherlock gazes fondly at the top of his head.“Are you drunk?”

“Pfft…”John looks up at him and grins.“Barely.It wasn’t that.I tripped over my sock.”

“The sock that’s on your foot.”

“It was loose.”

“I see.”

“Are you going to get me ice or not?”

“Of course.Come on then.”

Sherlock manoeuvres them towards the bedroom and then lowers John carefully onto the bed. “Take off your shirt and trousers.We should wash the shirt, just to be on the safe side with the poison, and you’ll want the ice directly on the bruise, I assume.”

John winces and rolls onto his uninjured side.“You just want me to get my kit off.”

“Mmm, well it is Christmas Eve, and I have been a very good boy this year.”

John’s eyes widen a little, as a smile teases the corner of his mouth.“True.”

Sherlock leaves him on that note.He’s pleased with the way the evening is shaping up.Not the unfortunate tumble, or the destroyed gift, of course, but John’s responsiveness to his attempts at flirtation, his open, warm mood…His getting his kit off. 

It bodes well, all things considered.There may be some intimacy forthcoming.A few kisses at the very least.At best?Sherlock stops himself.There are some things he doesn’t allow himself to think about for long.It seems foolhardy to dwell on things that have little chance of happening, and of which he has little experience.But now…?Tonight it feels as though the sky might be the limit.

Sherlock dons a glove from the kitchen, and returns to the landing to retrieve the sad remains of his gift.he sniffs it delicately.It seems alright, but one never knows with Victorian apothecary accoutrements.Best to seal it up until he can analyse the remains properly. 

By the time he gets back to the bedroom with an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel, John is sprawled out on the bed in just his pants, snoring softly.The bruise on his hip is already livid.

“John.”

“Mmm…”

“I have your ice.”

“Mm.Good.Hurts a bit.”

“Yes, it looks very angry.”

John cracks an eye open, and cranes his neck up to gaze down his flank.“Christ, it does look bad.Be gentle when you put it on.”

_Oh.An invitation.Better and better._

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed, and lays one hand on John’s thigh, while he carefully slides up the side of John’s pants and applies the ice pack to his hip with the other.John hisses a little, but then relaxes, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to catalogue the new data available at his finger tips. 

John’s legs are pale, and lightly peppered with fair hair, that curls ever so slightly.The further up his thighs you go, the sparser the hair.His hips are nearly hairless.His thighs and arse are perfectly formed, and there is a lovely indentation where thigh transitions to the gluteal muscles.This is something Sherlock has noticed before, of course, but he has never had this much access, without apparel, and with all the lights on.

“Mm, feels nice.”

Sherlock suddenly realises that he has been slowly stroking his free hand down the length of John’s thigh, down to the hinge of his knee, back up again.But, John is not pushing him away, not saying stop.No.John is saying ‘nice’, and so he continues.

“How long should I leave it on?”

“About 20 min.”

“You’ll fall asleep again.”

John curls his arm under his head, and smiles softly, letting his eyes slide shut.“Not if you keep doing that.”

“Especially if I keep doing this.”

“Well, come down here then, so I don’t have to fall asleep by myself.”

“Alright, but let me get out of my clothes first.”

John giggles, and winks at him, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.“You are drunk.”

“What?I can’t flirt with my…?Why does my having a good time with you mean I have to be drunk?”

Sherlock smiles fondly as he toes out of his socks and starts to unbutton his shirt.“Because you’re being exceptionally ridiculous.”

John’s eyes are glued to his fingers as they move down the placket of his shirt, releasing one button at a time (admittedly a tad slower than is strictly necessary).“Maybe I’m just happy.”

“Are you?”

John just nods.His lips are slightly parted, eyes glazed with something Sherlock clearly recognises as desire.

“Good.I am too.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Even though I’ve gone and ruined a perfect evening by tripping over my own two feet?”

“Seems a tad premature to be declaring the evening ruined, don’t you think?”Sherlock punctuates this last statement with the slow unfastening of his trouser flies.

John swallows dryly at the sight, and licks his lips, his breath shallowing out almost instantly.It’s fascinating to observe.John has never allowed the intensity of his desire to telegraph in so blatant and obvious a display before.Not like this, not directed at Sherlock, out in the open, plain as day.

Sherlock’s body responds in echo.Sympathetic pleasure.It’s delicious; so much better than being left to the devices of your own imagination.

They have never taken things so far before, never pushed the boundaries of the quiet affection and intimacy they have carved out between them this last year.Everything they have done up until now, even their kisses could still be defended as platonic. 

Despite John’s recent assertion that he would like to explore further, it is something Sherlock has assumed John still needs—to retain the sanctuary of the label: deep, intense male friendship, platonic love in it’s purest form.What they are, what they have is that, of course, but it has always been more, too, and that ‘more’ is the phantom they still rarely acknowledge, an uncharted territory that still lies ahead should they choose to set course.

Sherlock lets his trousers drop to the floor.They are bespoke, his best pair, a silk and wool blend, which ensures that they fall slowly, lightly, pool neatly, all to glorious effect.He steps out of them, and moves toward the bed in only his pants.He’d chosen those carefully this morning as well, a violet, silk blend that clings a little, even as it covers, that contrasts perfectly with his skin, and John seems to think so too, because he is staring at him now like he is a decade’s worth of birthdays and Christmases all rolled into one beautiful package.

“This my gift then?”John sounds a little dazed.

“It could be.Though there was another little thing.That can wait until morning, if you prefer.”

John nods.“Yeah…Come here.”

Sherlock does as bidden, spoons himself in behind John, head propped up on his hand, as he gently swats John’s hand away from the icepack at his hip.“Let me see it.”

And John moves his hand, lets Sherlock inspect the bruise, and wonder-of-wonders, leans back against his chest, bare skin on bare skin.Sherlock’s head goes light at the sensation.

“It looks quite grim.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.Does anything else hurt?”

“Mm, yeah.My shoulder.Wrenched it a bit reaching for the handrail.”

John jerks his chin toward his good shoulder the one closest to Sherlock’s lips.Sherlock kisses it on instinct, while carefully lowering the ice back to John’s injured hip.

He feels the response move through John’s body like a gently rolling wave, feels his chest tighten, inhale, ragged exhale, almost imperceptible rock of his hips.Every nerve in Sherlock’s body wakes up.His abdomen tenses, his mouth waters, his nipples pinch into small peaks.

“Here?”He murmurs close to John’s ear, and presses a finger to the crook of his neck.

“Could be…”

And so Sherlock kisses there as well, lets the tip of his tongue slip almost imperceptibly over the surface of John’s skin.He tastes of salt, and wool, and the bitter after-taste of faded cologne. 

John sucks in another breath, a gasp, lets it out again in a whimper, and any semblance of self-control Sherlock had been trying to maintain rushes away like fog in the morning sun.He slips an arm around John’s waist, pulls his body back against his, and buries his face in his hair, as his cock fills and presses against the cleft of John’s arse.It makes Sherlock drunk, and dizzy with want.

John has gone very still.This is the farthest from shore they have ever sailed together.Sherlock doesn’t want to rush it.There is time to drift, to let it settle no matter how thirsty he has suddenly become, no matter how much his body cries to him for more, more, _more_.

John’s hand finds his, guides their meshed fingers up to press against John’s heart.“Give me a minute, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, breathes against John’s scalp, and lets his eyes slide shut.

They breathe in tandem.John’s thumb strokes the side of his hand.After a moment or two, he lifts Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles.“I love you.”Sherlock’s cock throbs in response, and John’s grip on his hand tightens.“Christ, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”Sherlock hardly recognises his own voice, rough with desire, and all the emotion he had once denied himself.He remembers why now, this feeling of floating, being consumed, losing any ability to think clearly—nothing but sensation.It is bordering on too much, and not enough all at once.He wants to absorb John, to pull him as far into his own body as he possibly can, and fuse—body, blood, bone, cells, atoms, smaller and smaller, down to the most infinite of energies.

“Damn this bloody hip.Want to see you.Come over here.”

Sherlock doesn’t wait to be asked twice, he slips off the end of the bed, comes around, and stands looking down at John, who’s rolled onto his back now, the front of his blue, cotton Y-fronts straining against ample evidence of his own arousal.

It stops Sherlock in his tracks.It shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet somehow it is.The idea that John might want him this way, though always a distant possibility, is now laid out before him, a tangible fact, and Sherlock feels a sudden and unexpected surge of anxiety.

He sees the moment John sees it.Something in his face changes.He reaches out his hand.“Hey.It’s okay.No rush, yeah?”

“No.No rush.”

“Come here.”

Sherlock lays back down.

“Come here,” John repeats, taps his chest lightly in invitation.And Sherlock goes, of course he does.It takes them a little while to get settled, Sherlock’s head against John’s chest, their legs tangled, Sherlock’s slightly wilted cock pressed against John’s thigh, and John’s fingers tangled in Sherlock’s curls, chin pressed against his forehead.

“Mm, you smell good.”

“There’s lavender in my shampoo.”It’s a stupid thing to say, not at all in keeping with the mood of the current proceedings, but John doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

“Yeah?’S nice.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says without knowing why.

“There is absolutely nothing for you to be sorry about.What are you on about?”

He buries his face a little closer to John’s heart, relishes in the sensation of the sparse, fair chest hair tickling his nose, and teasing his eyelashes.“It was a lot.Perhaps too much.I’m sorry.”

“It’s not too much.Promise.”John tilts his chin down and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.“It is definitely not too much, and the evening is far from over.Unless…Listen, if this is too much, for you, I…”

“No.No, it’s good.Please…Please, John.”He’s not even sure what it is he’s begging for, just to be allowed to stay like this, close, breathing the same air, heartbeats in tandem, John’s hands on him, and their bodies touching, everywhere—everywhere…

“Yeah, okay.”He can hear the smile, the breathy desire, and pure, liquid joy in John’s voice.It was the begging, no doubt.John naturally chooses partners who dominate him, but he is unconsciously flattered and aroused by being needed.He craves a mixture of both in some strange cocktail that none of his previous partners have been able to properly concoct.Fortunately, Sherlock is undeterred and even stimulated by a good challenge.

His current vantage point is ideal to observe the effect of his attempts.He can see straight down the plane of John’s chest and abdomen, to the swell of his cock.It’s thick, and though it has lost some of it’s earlier enthusiasm, it still twitches when Sherlock breathes in just the right way against John’s skin, or lets his fingers slide over the dip of his waist.

“Am I allowed to touch you?”He pitches his voice low, watches John’s abdomen flex at the sound, his cock throb, and fill out a little, again.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

He feels a tension come to John’s chest.Hears him swallow dryly, even as his cock throbs again, begins to strain against the front of his pants.“Anywhere…”

“Tell me.”

“You want me to tell you what to do?”

Sherlock slides up a little, lets his clothed cock drag along the tense muscle of John’s thigh, buries his face in John’s neck with a gasp of pleasure, and tilts his lips towards his ear.“Show me.”

John’s whole body coils tight, and he makes the same delightful sound as before, half gasp, half whimper. 

It is nothing like the sounds Sherlock has heard him make in the past with the long stream of girlfriends John had marched through their flat the first year they lived together.Then he had been loud, vocal, even filthy at times, grunts and cries that had been so guttural, so animalistic, that Sherlock had laid in bed and rolled his eyes at the theatricality of it all.Whoever that John was, it was not the one he knew, and it didn’t align with the carefully constructed, and lovingly guarded fantasies he had created for himself, so he had chosen to ignore it.

But this John, the one who’s fingers are currently knotting in his hair, just tight enough to mingle pleasure and pain, the one panting, sighing, growing harder by the minute, this John—oh this John is so much more beautiful than anything he could have imagined, that it takes his breath away.

“Show me,” he repeats, and melts into the sound of John’s quiet moan, into the sensation of John’s other hand, finding his, guiding it up his ribcage, over the hard plane of his chest.John’s nipples are hard and peaked, and Sherlock shivers at the sensation of one gliding against his palm.

“Oh god,” John breathes.“Wanted this.Wanted you, for so long.”

“You have me.”Murmured just behind the shell of John’s ear, sealed with a kiss.“You’ve always had me.”Lips tracing the line of his neck, down to the crook of his shoulder.

John’s hand is over his, is moving again, grazing ribs, dipping down over his upper abdominals, lower still.Sherlock deposits a string of kisses over John’s clavicle and then tucks his head under John’s chin, again, just as John stops the journey of their hands at the dip of his navel.He is panting,His skin is flushed, and warm, and there is a small wet spot beginning to form at the front of his pants.It makes Sherlock’s mouth water to see it.He waits, though, he waits while John gathers himself, decides.

When John’s hand begins to tremble on top of his, he twists his wrist, and takes it in his own.“I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispers.

“Don’t be…No rush, remember.”

John’s hand stirs in his, meshes their fingers again.“Yeah, right.No rush.Okay.”

Sherlock aches.The hand John still has buried in his hair, stirs, finger tips scraping over his scalp, sending sparks down his neck, over his arms.His cock throbs, and he cants his hips against John’s thigh on instinct.

“That feel good?”John sounds awed rather than troubled, so Sherlock nods against his chest. “Yeah?Do it again.”

And so he does.And does.And does, and does, and does, and oh!, but isn’t that so much better than anything he ever managed by his own hand.John’s thigh is rock hard, his fingers knot and scrape, knot and scrape against Sherlock’s scalp, the scent of him is everywhere, and every infinitesimal, pleasure-fuelled movement that John’s body makes registers with Sherlock’s brain, only to be transmuted into pure, sympathetic ecstasy.It’s good, so good, almost—too good.If not for the friction of his pants keeping things just this side of perfect it would be over before it began. 

John’s abdomen has grown tight again, and his fingers are tugging at Sherlock’s hair, as he shifts his thigh a little, giving Sherlock more to grind against.Sherlock watches John’s hand, as it slips down over his hip bone, involuntarily teasing more pleasure from his own body, watches his pelvis as it rocks upward, seeks friction against a body that isn’t there.

Sherlock burns to touch, to tease, to watch John come unravelled beneath his hand, but the rhythm he’s found, and the pleasure of what he is doing now, has almost reached it’s zenith, and if John does not change the trajectory soon, he will be there, on the edge, crashing against and into John again, and again, and god but he wants to.

“John, I—I think I’m going to…Please.John, please!”

John throws his head back against the pillow, hips thrusting upwards.“Oh Christ…”

It must be torture, Sherlock thinks, to want release to badly, and to deny yourself in such a fashion.He wants to help.He wants desperately to help, but he needs to know it’s wanted, and right now he’s not so sure.

John’s cock strains against the fabric of his pants, reaching, needing the touch, the heat of another body. “John…”Sherlock moans into his neck, and John thrusts upward again with a ragged whimper.

“God, oh Christ Jesus.”

“John…”Sherlock surges upwards, and kisses him.No chaste kiss, this.Deep, and fierce, and claiming, and John makes a broken sound at the back of his throat, and kisses back with equal fervour, his hands scrambling along Sherlock’s back, sliding down, under the fabric of his pants, over the rise of his bare arse, and pulling him close.

“Your hip,” Sherlock pulls back panting.

“Fuck my hip,” John growls.

Sherlock grins, and shifts his weight again, until his cock is pressed against John’s uninjured one.“If you insist.”

John gasps out a laugh, giggles, it almost sounds like relief, and then he’s kissing him again, sliding Sherlock’s pants down over his hips, wiggling out of his own scrambling, shifting, grunting in pain for the briefest of moments when Sherlock’s thigh jars his hip to harshly, and then settling, moaning with pleasure, and sheer relief as their cocks slot in beside one another, slick, and hard, and hot.

“Do you have…?”

Sherlock just shakes his head in confusion.

“Rubbers, we need some.”

“Oh.That.No, but I’m clean, I was just tested a few months back, and I’ve been good since.”

“A month ago for me.Clean, too.”

“Thought you’d be prepared, did you?”

“Thought it best.Got some rubbers too, but they’re all the way up…”John gasps and throws his head back against the pillow as Sherlock rocks down against him, causing their cocks to slide together, slick with sweat, and pre-come.“Oh Christ, Sherlock.I’m—I’m not going to last.”

“Thank god.”He moves their bodies together, slowly a first, and then faster, harder, finding a rhythm that has John panting, and keening; coming wholly apart.The sounds he makes…This is what Sherlock loves the most.They are unique to them, at least they are different from anything Sherlock has ever heard from him before.He likes to think that he is the only one who has ever been able to tease them to the surface, and if that is a fiction, it is one Sherlock is willing to live with. The thought of it is setting his whole body aflame.

When John grabs a hold of his arse again, pulls him closer, Sherlock moans, reaches between their bodies, without a thought, and wraps his hand around both of their cocks at once.John lets out a shout, that strings out into a moan, and then thrusts hard into the ring of Sherlock’s hand, almost frantic, head thrashing against the pillow, mouth wide, eyes screwed shut.It’s the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen.

He can feel his own pleasure building to the breaking point, as John’s slick cock slides against his, against his palm, as his hot breath wafts against Sherlock’s neck, and his fingers knead his arse.He is so close, and there will be no stopping it soon, but he wants to see John come undone first.

There is a small bead of sweat trickling down the side of John’s neck.And Sherlock crashes his mouth against it, sucks hard, and then soothes it with a slick sweep of tongue.John whines, and it almost sends Sherlock over the edge.John tilts his head away, exposing his neck, wanting more, and Sherlock obliges with another kiss, and another, his hand pumping faster and faster between them, until suddenly John arches beneath him, mouth open in a silent cry, as his cock pulses hard, and he spills thick and hot over Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock feels the pleasure surge through his own body in that moment too, John’s climax living in him, and he shouts in surprise at the intensity of his own release as it crashes over him, rings him dry, his brain whiting out, and every cell in his body singing.

John is murmuring softly, words he doesn’t quite register, but they are soft and encouraging, and as he slowly comes back to himself, John’s hands are there, soothing over his back, carding through his hair.“God you were so—you were perfect, Sherlock.You’re perfect.You’re so perfect.”

“So were you,” his endorphin-addled brain supplies.It sounds stupid, but he doesn’t care.John is here, and he thinks he’s perfect, and that’s all that matters.

They must drift, and when Sherlock wakes their bodies have cooled, sticky, and smelly, and delightfully human.He thinks of John’s hip, and cringes.He’ll hardly be able to walk come morning.

He slips from John’s arms, the best he can without waking him, and goes to the loo.He wets a flannel, and cleans himself off before having a piss, and then wets the flannel again, before padding out into the kitchen and grabbing another icepack. 

When he gets back to the bedroom, John is just starting to stir.He sits on the edge of the bed, and wipes at John’s belly, smiles softly as his eyes flicker open.“Hello.”

John blinks up at him, still slightly disoriented with sleep.“Hey…”

“Thought you might appreciate a little wash.We made quite the mess.Best not let Mrs. Hudson do the laundry this week.”

John’s mouth stretches into a grin.“You kidding?She’ll be thrilled.I figured she and Mrs. Turner, next door, have wagers.She’ll want proof.”

Sherlock chuckles low, and quiet, and presses the warm flannel to John’s belly again.John takes it, and finishes the job, wincing when he draws close to his hip.

Sherlock holds up the icepack.“It’s bad.You’ll not be able to walk at all in a few hours, if we don’t ice it properly.”

John looks down at the large patch of black and blue.“Shit.”

“Here, let me.”He presses the pack against the bruise, and looks up again only find John’s eyes locked on his.

“You okay?”John asks in earnest.

He nods.“Yes.Rather better than, I’d say.Are you?”

He sees John think about it, take physical, emotional, psychological stock.He nods.“Yeah.Yeah, I’m great.”

“I’m glad.”He smiles softly.John smiles back.After a moment he sucks in a small breath.“Do you want your gift now?”

The corner of John’s mouth quirks upwards.“Thought I already had that.”

“Well, yes.But, part two.”

“Yeah.Sure.”

Sherlock gets up, takes the envelope from off the dresser, and lays down on the bed, before handing it over.“This might not be right.You don’t have to feel obligated.But—well, I wanted you to have the option, if you think it’s something you’d like to do.”

John’s brow furrows with curiosity.He takes the envelope from Sherlock’s hand, tears it open, and pulls out the piece of paper inside.Sherlock watches him read it, watches the moment the contents register.

He looks up.“Is this what I think it is?”

Sherlock nods.“You are a good writer, John.People are captured by your stories, and you inexplicably manage to paint me in a way that has some sort of mass appeal.I just thought that you might like to give publication a try.Edward is a very good agent.He will do right by you.He’s read your blog, and he thinks there is real potential to turn it into something publishable.”

John looks back down at the paper in his hand, and says nothing.

“You don’t have to.It was just—a thought, and perhaps a very stupid one.I don’t want you to feel you must.”

John looks back up, but this time his eyes are full.“I always thought you hated my writing.”

Sherlock smiles fondly, and shakes his head.“No.”

John looks back down on the acceptance letter in his hand.“I don’t know.I don’t know if I’m good enough.”

“He thinks you are.He has some very high profile clients.He doesn’t take just anyone.”

John’s hands shake.Sherlock reaches out and take one in his own.John lets him.“Just think about it.No pressure.”

“Yeah, I…Okay.Yeah, I will.”He looks up.“Thank you.Really, Sherlock.Thank you, for everything.”

“I could say the same.Tonight was…”He’s at a loss for words, which seems to charm John.

He grins.“Yeah, it was.”

“Good enough that you might be persuaded to do it again sometime.”

John laughs.“Yeah, I think I could be persuaded.”

“Good.”

“Hey, what time is it?”

“Just after 3:00.Rosie won’t be up for a couple of hours yet.Would you like to try and sleep a little more?”

“I’d like to lie here with you for awhile more, yeah.Not sure how much sleeping will be going on.”

“John,” Sherlock warns.“Your hip.”

“Sod my hip.”

“Is this how it’s going to be now, then?Am I going to have to protect you from the irrational demands of your own insatiable libido?”

John laughs.“Come here, idiot.I promise to keep this icepack on the whole time.”

“What fantastic feats of dexterity you have planned.”He slides back into the welcoming shelter of John’s arms, and relishes in the warmth, the safety of it, as John presses his lips to the top of his head.

“Might be a tad ambitious.Not sure I can manage again so soon, even if I want to.‘The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak', and all that rot.”He kisses Sherlock’s head again.“I love you.”

Sherlock sighs with contentment.“I love you, too.Merry Christmas, John.”

“Hey—so it is.Happy Christmas to you too.Happiest one I’ve had to date.”

“Even happier ones to come, I hope.”

He feels John smile against his hair.“Yeah.I think so.I think you’re right.”


End file.
